“ Right.”
“ You left her on, despite the fact that she seemed to have an attitude.”
“ Right again. What are you trying to tell me?”
“ Only this, Jake. Throw out the book. Go with your instincts. She’s a woman who’s driven a million miles for Metro, and her hemorrhoids are flaring up.”
“ Hemorrhoids?”
“ Did you not notice the pillow she carries with her each day?”
I hadn’t.
“ She works overtime to support her children. She has to deal on a daily basis with rude, tired, angry people who have lost their cars and maybe their homes. So we come into court with a pretty white boy who’s never done an honest day’s work and a fat con man who’d steal cookies from the Girl Scouts, and you expect her to be sympathetic. Black jurors will cut you a break if they think the cops did wrong, which is always the presumption in the ‘hood, but you got to remember this. Your black juror isn’t from the streets. She’s a registered voter or she wouldn’t have been called, and when you bring in some slippery white boys, you got trouble.”
“ So why’d you leave her on?” I asked.
“‘ Cause, Jake, my boy, in case you haven’t noticed, while I may be as bald as a cue ball, I’m as black as the eight ball. I was hoping for some home cookin’ from number five.”
“ And…”
“ And she scowled at me worse than at you. We both botched it with Mrs. Cherelle Washington. We bobbled, blundered, and bungled. We fumbled, faltered, and floundered. We looked deep inside ourselves and failed to see the light.”
“ Maybe we’ll get lucky. You do believe in luck, don’t you Henry Thackery?”
“ Of course. How else can one explain his enemy’s successes?”
I thought I’d heard that somewhere before and probably had. Lawyers are noted plagiarists.
Our respective clients sat at opposite ends of the defense table, and I joined H. T. Patterson pacing in front of the bench. The clients watched us, probably wondering why H.T. and I acted as if we were on trial. I’m not sure why, but that’s the way it is.
“ Good luck, Kyle,” Blinky said, caught up in the spirit of the moment. Foxhole buddies, at least for now.
Josefina Baroso sat in the front row of the otherwise deserted gallery. Her legs were crossed, her fine chin tilted upward, an enigmatic smile playing at her lips. I resented her regal presence. If this were ancient Rome, and we were gladiators, she would be casting thumbs down as a spear pressed against her brother’s throat.
Abe Socolow walked calmly down the aisle, whispered something to Queen Josefina, and took his place at the prosecution table. He was one of these guys who never sweated. His shirt always stayed tucked into his pants, and his shoes never lost their shine. I was dying to get him in a headlock and give him a noogie.
The back door banged open, and Judge Gold trundled in, his black robes flapping behind him. The clerk was in her place, and the stenographer sat hunched over her keyboard, stretching her neck. “Bring in the jury,” the judge ordered the bailiff.
You try to read their faces. If they won’t look you in the eye, they’ve gone against you. That’s what old lawyers will tell you over a dry martini at the Gaslight. As with most courtroom wisdom about verdicts, they’re right fifty percent of the time.
These jurors were all over the place. A couple studied their shoes. A couple were clutching their thin sweaters, protection against the spastic air-conditioning that could drip warm water one moment and freeze sides of beef the next. Mrs. Cherelle Washington shot a look at Socolow, then me, then stopped her gaze on H. T. Patterson. She seemed angry with all of us.
“ Who do you think’s the foreman?” Blinky asked.
“ The shark hunter,” I guessed, straining unsuccessfully to see who was holding the two sheets of paper on which was written the fate of Messrs. Baroso and Hornback.
“ Has the jury reached its verdicts?” Judge Gold asked, in properly senatorial tones.
Mrs. Washington stood up.
Oh shit.
“ We have, Your Honor,” she said, holding out the verdict forms to the wheezing bailiff, who carried them to Rosa Suarez, the clerk.
“ Thank you, Madam Foreperson,” the judge said. He studied the forms and seemed to grimace, but it could have been stomach gas. “The clerk will publish the verdicts,” he announced, handing the forms to Rosa Suarez, who stood with an air of self-importance.
Rosa Suarez’s uncle was a county commissioner, and her entire family-mother, father, three brothers, and a sister- held county jobs. If you needed a gator removed from a backyard canal or a new water meter on your house, chances are a Suarez would sign the paperwork. Rosa Suarez touched a hand to a silver barrette pinning back her dark hair and began reading in a bored voice: “In the Eleventh Judicial Circuit, in and for Dade County, Florida, Criminal Division, Case Number Ninety-four, Thirteen, Twenty-one, State of Florida versus Louis Xavier Baroso, we, the jury, find the defendant, Louis Xavier Baroso, not guilty on all counts. So say we all.”
All right! That jolt of exhilaration, the momentary joy of victory. It always fades so quickly, I wanted to savor it.
Next to me, Blinky sighed and grabbed my hand with a sweaty, hearty shake. Rosa Suarez cleared her throat: “In the Eleventh Judicial Circuit, in and for Dade County, Florida, Criminal Division, Case Number Ninety-four, Thirteen, Twenty-two, State of Florida versus Kyle Lynn Hornback, we, the jury, find the defendant Kyle Lynn Hornback not guilty on counts one, three, and four…”
Uh-oh.
“…and guilty on count two, fraud, in violation of Section 817.29 of the Florida statutes. So say we all.”
Hornback’s hand slammed the defense table. “What the fuck!”
Socolow shook his head. He wanted Baroso; Hornback was just along for the ride.
I thumbed through the indictment, trying to figure it out. Not guilty of grand larceny, not guilty of racketeering, not guilty of a scheme to defraud, but guilty of common law gross fraud. It’s an 1868 law that prohibits “cheating” and sits in the musty tomes next to the statute that forbids cutting off the head of sheep before they’re dressed. Just goes to show why prosecutors charge everything in the book. Throw enough mud on the wall, some will stick.
H. T. Patterson didn’t flinch. “Your Honor, we ask that the jury be polled.”
“ Very well,” Judge Gold said, nodding judiciously, and turning toward the jury box. “The clerk has just read your verdict in which you have found Mr. Hornback guilty of gross fraud as alleged in count two of the indictment. Is that your verdict, so say you all?”
“ You all,” chimed the tattoo artist and the body piercer in perfect harmony.
The judge rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Maybe we better do this individually.”
It took another couple of minutes, but each juror affirmed the verdict. The judge finished by thanking the jurors for their patience and wisdom, then handed out certificates attesting to the splendid performance of their civic duties. He told Blinky he was a free man and postponed sentencing for Hornback, pending a presentence investigation of his background. Over Socolow’s objections, he allowed Hornback to remain free on bond until the sentencing date. The jurors filed out of the courtroom, and the judge ducked out the back door. The stenographer folded up her machine, cracked her knuckles, and left. The clerk gathered up loose papers, stuffed them in a file, and followed.
Abe Socolow packed his briefcase, stopped by the defense table, gave me a friendly pop on the shoulder, and said, “Go figure, huh, Jake?” That was as close to a compliment as I would get.
“ I figure it was a compromise,” I told him. “Some wanted to acquit them both, some wanted to convict them both. You made Hornback look bad on cross, and they remembered that. Blinky never testified, so the lingering image was Hornback fidgeting on the stand. Just reinforces my long-standing rule against letting defendants testify.”